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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23226100">Flower's Delight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailsRose/pseuds/Blue%20Rose'>Blue Rose (HailsRose)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Devil May Cry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Gen, Language of Flowers, M/M, Remembrance, Slice of Life, Soft and Fluffy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 05:15:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,242</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23226100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailsRose/pseuds/Blue%20Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A bouquet of seven flowers picked for each day of Devil May Cry Hanami Week--each one blooms into something sweet. </p><p>Day 1: Rosemary<br/>Day 2: Amaryllis; Gladiolus</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kyrie &amp; Vergil (Devil May Cry), Kyrie/Nero (Devil May Cry), Nero &amp; Vergil (Devil May Cry)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Rosemary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Day One<br/>Prompt: Day Off [Weaponcare, Chef/Cook, Flower]<br/>Rosemary: Remembrance</p><p>I never get tired of Kyrie and Vergil interactions, they're always so awkward and soft and sweet. Exactly my kind of pallet.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a cold day in early February when Kyrie hears it—the metallic scrape of a sword being sharpened. She rifles through her groceries, unhindered while she sorts out the ingredients she needs. She isn’t at all concerned by the noise, used to it cutting through silent days and attracting the customary audience. Her kids, who Nero has told repeatedly to keep at least six feet away from the various steels. </p><p>Only about a half-hour later does she realize the sound is too sharp and thin to be Nero’s Red Queen. She tilts to the side, peering out of the kitchen window to the porch. Vergil leans back against a post, examining the Yamato while a whetstone balances on his thigh. The afternoon sun catches on the blade and bathes him in a warm, golden light. It’s a rare sight to behold, her father-in-law so relaxed, even if it’s in the brisk cold while wearing a thick jacket and a wooly scarf. She cherishes every occasion if only because Nero does. Vergil turns just enough to notice Kyrie’s stare and he offers her a friendly, albeit awkward smile.</p><p>Vergil stands from his place on the porch, slips the whetstone into his pocket, and heads inside. He moves like phantom silk when he teleports, balletic and smooth, a shimmering afterimage left in his place as he goes from one area of the house to another, sidestepping Eva’s bouncer (situated in the doorway so Kyrie can watch her while she cooks.)</p><p>“How are you today, vita mia?” Vergil, now only dressed in a loose black shirt, Yamato stashed away, drops into a crouch and waggles his finger around in front of Eva. She grasps onto it with all her six months of clumsy, infant reflexes, screaming gleefully. </p><p>It doesn’t escape Kyrie the way Vergil uses her nickname with a fond tone—seldom heard unless he was addressing one of the children for whom he has a soft spot. He’s provided terms of endearment for each of them along with some kind of inside quip that Kyrie reminds herself to ask him about soon. </p><p>“I take it that means you are very well,” he says. Once he’s gotten himself free and upright, he spares Kyrie a thoughtful glance. “I don’t suppose you’d like some help?” </p><p>Kyrie doesn’t have an answer, Vergil’s likely to cut her off before she can tell him ‘no,’ so instead, she gestures to the kitchen and all the supplies left out to prepare dinner. </p><p>As Vergil scours his hands at the sink, Kyrie lifts a pair of aprons off their hooks, both of which have hilariously corny sayings on them. She claims the ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron almost every time just so Nero will plant one on her cheek as soon as he walks through the door. Which leaves the one that says ‘Whisky Business’ on it for Vergil. It’s delightfully appropriate because Vergil is a living, breathing health hazard when not distracted by everyday life. It’s also the only thing Nico has yet to snap a picture of him wearing. He scowls at the apron when Kyrie hands it to him but otherwise doesn’t complain. </p><p>“How was your day, Mr. Vergil?” She asks as they set to work, mincing garlic on one side while Vergil grinds together fresh herbs on the other. </p><p>“Pleasant,” He replies. “I hope I didn’t take you by surprise, though. I showed up unannounced.” </p><p>As if it matters, he shows up every weekend. </p><p>“I don’t mind and I know Nero doesn’t either,” Kyrie says. “He’s glad to have you around, even if he’s not so keen on showing it.” </p><p>The subdued chuckle that Kyrie has gotten used to hearing since they’ve met touches the air with such quietness. It’s taken some practice, listening for it, being so rare and kindled by the most offbeat things but appreciated nonetheless for its meaning. His jagged edges receding around the people he cares about. It’s such a gentle, peaceful love, the kind of which only someone who has been torn apart over and over, and only knows respite as a welcome stranger can be capable of. </p><p>Kyrie notes that he seems more relaxed than usual and pauses in the middle of her chopping to observe the way he twirls a sprig of rosemary between his thumb and index finger, his eyes distant and his lips pulling into a cautious smile, as if still afraid to remember the things before a perpetual storm rolled in. </p><p>“Mr. Vergil?” </p><p>He lifts out of his stupor and sets the rosemary aside, the tips of his ears turning pink as he fumbles for an excuse. </p><p>“My apologies, Ms. Kyrie,” He says. “I was just… recalling something to mind.” </p><p>Kyrie says nothing, knowing that in the end, whether Vergil comes forward about his memory troubles is his choice. One way or another, they’ll go right back to making dinner together, Nero will eventually come home, he’ll be swarmed by their children, Julio will spout off every new joke he’s learned since Vergil’s last visit, and Eva will do her best to upend as much spaghetti sauce as possible. It’s one of those things that becomes the norm when you aren’t looking and to Kyrie, it’s now just an obvious fact—water is wet, Nero swears when he thinks she can’t hear him, Vergil has a way of diverting attention away from himself. </p><p>“My mother…” Vergil eventually continues. Kyrie intently listens, hoping that he won’t backtrack. Eva, as in the late wife of the Legendary Dark Knight, the mother of the twins, the woman of whom she named her daughter after is something of a rarity. When she is spoken about, it’s with a tone of reverence. Kyrie’s never asked too many questions out of respect for her memory and for the lingering sadness her sons carry because of her death. “Every weekend, I think she used to make rosemary pasta.” He pauses for a second. “And I think I used to help her.” </p><p>“Did she ever make hers spicy?” </p><p>Vergil blanks at the question, his fingertips brush over his lips, lingering there for a brief moment. “I… yes, I believe she did.” </p><p><em> ‘So did Credo,’ </em>Kyrie says to no one but herself. Though her wounds are not as many as Nero’s, she has her fair share, and Credo’s absence in her life is still raw and gaping. Kyrie chews on her lip, contemplating whether or not she should get out the chile-flavored olive oil she accidentally bought last month. She hadn’t even noticed until she came home that years of habit were still ingrained into her muscle memory, this trip to the store resulted in her buying something she doesn’t even cook anymore. </p><p>But then, she now has all the ingredients to do so. Why shouldn’t she? It isn’t as if Credo would hate her if she carried on their Summer tradition. Picking tomatoes in the balmy sun, her favorite sun hat perched on her head, Nero grumbling in the shade over his sunburnt skin, jarring up their stash until Credo picked one out of the pantry later in the month for their treasured family recipe. She daintily stands up on her toes and opens the cupboard, fishing around in the far back for the bottle of oil. The rattling draws Vergil’s attention, who tenses in preparation to grab anything that may fall in the event she’s too clumsy to notice. Unlikely, a bit irritating, she isn’t helpless after all, and she manages just fine, thank you very much. </p><p>“My brother used to make this recipe all the time when it was warm out.” </p><p>She peers out to the snow-covered courtyard. In her mind, it’s melted away, green grass and wild weeds pepper their lawn, and mixing with the creaking of her parents’ rustic, wooden porch, Credo’s viola sings a soft tune for the dancing fireflies. Kyrie clears her throat, halfway caught between singing along and pushing her thoughts away. </p><p>“Would you be okay to-”</p><p>“Ms. Kyrie, you need not ask my permission for your household,” Vergil cuts her off. Though whether he realizes Kyrie was more asking herself and what remains of her brother is a mystery. “You may simply do as you please. I cannot stop you.” </p><p>Kyrie smiles and uncaps the bottle. They slip into an easy silence, save for Eva’s excited babbling.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Amaryllis; Gladiolus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>No matter what comes their way, Vergil always seems to be stuck in the same place, while Nero keeps moving forward -- or, Nero and Vergil in several, opposing vignettes.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Day Two<br/>Prompt: Motivation [Strength, Devil Trigger, Dream/Aspiration, Enemy, Beginnings]<br/>Amaryllis: Pride, Determination<br/>Gladiolus: Strength of Character, Faithfulness, Honor</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wave upon wave of blood flows through the Qliphoth, tortuous veins twining around Vergil’s throne, feeding into him, insatiable. Nothing can stand against him, not the foolish girl nor the torturer with the familiar face, they are thrown away with little care, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. So, <em> this </em>is absolute power. It feels incredible. </p><p>A flash of red appears in the chamber, dark and dull like the ichor his servants carry from the masses outside and emanating especially familiar energy. Vergil’s eyes land on the speck, curious about his next challenger and whether it is who he seeks. </p><p>“Jackpot.” </p><p>Vergil starts at the sound of that word. <em> His word. Their word. </em>After so long, did his brother truly remember it? What it meant to both of them? Time to find out. </p><p>Dante tears through the Qliphoth faster than Vergil has ever seen him. He barely touches the ground, nimble and light on his feet, his power is as burnished and bright as the day of his awakening on the tower, bubbling like lava welling out of the scorching earth, uncontained by neither man nor beast. He’s stronger than he’s ever been. But then, so is Vergil. This fight is easily decided. </p><p>And then <em>that creature </em>decides to interrupt his plans for Dante—to make him understand the truth behind their existence. Their survival. To understand true power. Given, he can remove <em>that creature </em>from his sight. This fight is shorter than his one with Dante, he can’t even say he’s impressed this time when his other opponents have put up a better struggle. It only serves to give Dante a chance to get back on his feet and make himself a nuisance like all little brothers do. At the very least, it’s mostly just the two of them now. A twinge of sadness and pain germinates in his chest and he’s forced to incinerate it before it can become a problem. When Vergil gives him power, he will understand, even if the method is unsavory and painful. In the end, this is the only way.</p><p>With their inheritance by his side, Dante rushes forward, caught in a blind rage. Vergil wields the Yamato, as he always has, and as this cycle has always continued. An endless war the two of them have always fought in a desperate bout to prove their strength and reason for fighting. </p><p>Like a dying star, Dante falls away.</p><hr/><p>Shrill, panicked screams pierce the air around Nero. Static fills his head, acrid words bounce around like some demented carnival ride, striking at every angle until his thoughts are as bruised as his body. Three boys his age scramble away, taken by fear and a colorful array of cuts, scrapes, and blackening welts. Despite knowing he’s the one who caused those injuries, for the first time since he’s been alive, Nero feels the vicious, burning fire inside mellow out. He runs a fist underneath his nose and finds his entire forearm coming away with blood. </p><p>He swallows down the angry howl trying to rip out of his throat. He’s going to hear it from the headmistress at the orphanage as soon as he returns. Who knows, maybe she’ll make him go to bed hungry three days straight again. He doesn’t give a damn, they already don’t feed him enough, so what’re a few extra hours spent pawing around, stealing food that isn’t his? </p><p>“Nero, what are you doing?” </p><p>It takes every fiber of being for Nero not to jump when he hears Credo and what is once filled with pride and relief is replaced with a wave of hot shame. <em> He saw, </em>the realization is as punctuating as the cool rasp of Credo’s voice when he leads his fellow knights through a patrol. There’s no way he didn’t see. With a wailing note of despair, Nero turns to face Credo, inadvertently making use of his big, bright puppy eyes to cushion the blow of the coming punishment. It’s just the drill on Fortuna, step out of line, disgrace the Savior, suffer the consequences only to pray the next day that the inevitable whispers and jeers coalesce to a minimum. Maybe such a thing is particularly true for Nero, who’s incapable of falling in line with the rest of them. The bringer of evil is over that boy. </p><p>Warmth blooms on Nero’s shoulder where Credo has placed a hand. Nero avoids his stare, the severe one he angles at everyone traveling his way save for his sweet little sister and her best friend’s bleeding heart. He’ll break if he sees how his scowl melts into gentle understanding, after all, Credo is one of the few who’s ever bothered to give him the time of day, conversation, and patience as though treating him like he’s normal is <em>simple. </em>It’s not simple to know him, it never is. He’s a special type of unusual, the air waivers around him, unsteady and sweltering, drawing unease from his surroundings, and everyone says his gaze is just a little too piercing. It's like he’s reading their souls. Nero has no such abilities, hilarious though their assumptions may be. </p><p>“Let’s go home, Nero.” </p><p><em> ‘What home?’ </em>Nero wants to ask as if he doesn’t already know. </p><p>Credo shunts him through the door to his family’s house and up the stairs just past the kitchen where he catches brief wafts of garlic and cream. Kyrie hums something rich and dulcet. They’ve started keeping boys’ clothes for him, which is unnecessary if you ask him, the hand-me-downs the orphanage provides keep him covered enough in the colder months. Nero steals the bathroom to soothe his worse injuries with hot water and soap. The very near second he’s properly dressed, Credo hoists him onto the counter. Nero grumbles a couple of unsavory words that someone his age probably shouldn’t be spouting off and earns himself a pointed look that goes completely ignored. </p><p>Nero rolls up his sleeves as Credo rifles around the cupboard beneath the sink for their bulky first-aid kit and fishes out a vinous disinfectant, the strongest they own and sure to sting like the mother of all pain. He sucks in a breath as a soaked cotton ball finds the first of cuts. Nero wishes Credo would hurry up so he doesn’t have to endure this century-long process of healing, spare him, just this once. </p><p><em> ‘No such luck, kiddo,’ </em>The world seems to tell him. </p><p>“You should know better than to start petty scuffles like this.” </p><p>There it is. The Lecture. Nero assures those who ask that the capital ‘L’ is necessary because Credo’s lectures are freaking legendary. A spark of irritation flickers in his gut and heat travels across his face and chest. </p><p>“They were being assholes…” </p><p>“Language,” Credo mutters. He grips Nero’s chin in one hand and presses another cotton ball to the cut above Nero’s eye with maybe a little too much vehemence to handle. But Nero’s a strong kid despite his complexion making the malnourishment obvious. That, for some reason, is the final straw for him. </p><p>“WELL, THEY WERE!” Nero screams, smacking Credo’s hand away. “Every day, I have to listen to them tell me that I'm a freak and that’s why my parents didn’t want me! I’m sick of it! I want it to stop!” </p><p>Nero spills more of his guts right then and there than he ever has in front of any living person. The moon and the stars and the trees in Mitis Forest are good listeners and they never judge him for being alone, they never take his opponents’ sides, sometimes it feels as if quietly, they’re assuring him he’s right and that even if no one else wants him, they do. Tears burn in Nero’s eyes and an embarrassed flush spreads across his body as he hollows out his body of all the turmoil in a river of broken words. Credo remains stoic in the face of it all, weathering the storm to its bitter end. </p><p>“I’ve been thinking,” Credo finally says after an unbearably long period, all of which Nero spent scrubbing his face raw and red. He produces a handkerchief for Nero, who loudly blows his nose. Nero looks up at him with puffy eyes, something hopeful about them that Credo can’t bear to crush. “You have all this wound up energy that needs an outlet. I have taken it up with my superiors and they have finally agreed to let me train you.” </p><p>Any of Nero’s retorts are smothered before they can be voiced. </p><p>“...train? You’re going to train me to be a knight?” </p><p>“If that is what you wish.” </p><p>If Nero had the energy to dance or run around or climb the walls out of sheer joy, he would have. All he can manage is a breathy, tentative laugh at risk of being smothered. </p><p>“However, Nero, you must promise me something.” Credo steps forward and smooths Nero’s hair back from his face, a picture of genuine seriousness. </p><p>“Anything!” Nero might regret this sometime later down the line when people start ridiculing him again but right now, he is willing to promise anything if he can get his hands on one of the caliburns he watches the knights fight with. He’s wanted to for so long, dared to dream for it as risky as that was. </p><p>“Never, under any circumstances, use the things I teach you in training against another human being,” Credo demands. “Or I will not teach you anymore.” </p><p>“I promise, no more fighting!” </p><p>Later, after shoveling Kyrie’s cooking into his mouth and napping on the couch, Nero wakes to the sound of Credo sharpening his sword on the back porch. He staggers out back wrapped in one of Kyrie’s blankets, the big soft kind that drowns him in fluff and gives him the disposition of a chubby cat. Credo looks back at him, bathed in the honey glow of the sunset. A spark of amusement crosses his features too quickly for most people to catch. </p><p> Nero gives him a blinding smile. </p><hr/><p>Thorns twine around Vergil’s ribcage and spine, the undying parasite is still loyal to Mundus even after all these years of terror-filled freedom. It shrieks, trying to strangle each breath, slow every stride, curling around his fingers in a last-ditch effort to secure its existence by throwing the Yamato away. Somewhere in his mind, he’s wrought with a bare shred of mirth. After so many years of being Mundus’ plaything, even after Dante sealed him away once more, he’s been nothing but a battery and a roof over the heads of those things climbing to revenge. He’s not sorry to say that he’s going to cut them out and crush them before they can reach their goal. Their quarrel with him means nothing in terms of strength. After so many years, Vergil can’t exactly say he’s gotten used to the pain but today’s success makes it feel more like a dull throb in comparison to the skin-rending agony he started in. </p><p>The full moon is bright and hangs like a pearl in the dark blue sky, shining down onto his family’s beloved old house. It’s nothing more than a skeleton grieved by neglect and the occasional demon nudging its nose through the rubble but Vergil recognizes it’s beautiful red shingles, the only house of its kind in this area. He staggers past the iron-wrought gate and pushes it closed with his back, gathering himself together until he’s capable of making it to the foyer. </p><p>The oil painting their father commissioned stares down at him with empty eyes, a mere peek into a good life with sweet dreams and counting stars and staying up past midnight to read poetry and redraw panels from Dante’s favorite comic books. That life was but a pile of ashes now. Only one other person survived and Vergil had a special type of regard for him. Hatred, begrudging respect, call it one will but the intent to strike him down is the only thing that lingers in his mind with perfect clarity. He needs to fight, it’s what he understands. He draws the Yamato from her sheathe, she sings with delight as he catches his ghastly reflection in the blade. </p><p>“Dante…” </p><p>He spares another glance at the painting and a pang of guilt starts weighing down in his stomach. <em> ‘I’m sorry, father, for never living up to your legacy. I’m sorry, mother, for never being strong enough. I’m sorry, brother, for everything we could have had but never did.’ </em></p><p>He turns from the painting, away from his family, and raises the Yamato so the moonlight glints off her shining steel. The world holds still for him, the great grandfather clock’s pendulum is motionless, all the wind and the clouds freeze. The things inside him go silent, cowering in fear, and for that solitary second, he hesitates. Did he really want to do this? He thinks of his family again, of his failures and his enslavement, and a new sort of vindication fills him. He plunges the Yamato into his heart, almost immediately the metallic taste of blood wells up in his mouth, and those things inside create a clamor unlike any he’s ever heard. He shoves it all out, his memories, his fear, his <em>weakness </em>until all that remains is nothing but his motivation to defeat Dante and his demonic power set free. In this time, he finds it ironic that his boyhood latches onto him again. </p><p>“Heavy chain... that does freeze my bones around…” </p><p>Lightning crackles in Vergil’s veins as he slams down onto his knees. A new brand of feeling overwhelms him as he rises, taller than the roof of his own house and finally pain-free. The Yamato is so small in his grasp, he could break it if he wanted to. It’s any wonder Mundus did so without prompting. He has power again, not quite of the magnitude he craves but that can be changed. </p><p>He turns, ever so slowly, catching sight of his weakness, trembling like a trapped animal and awaiting destruction. </p><p>Finally. </p><hr/><p>At fourteen-years-old, Nero jitters in his seat and spiders crawl over the expanse of his body. He taps out an anxious rhythm that feels suspiciously like the hymn he listened to Kyrie sing last night and now more than ever, he wishes he had her hand to squeeze and her shoulder to lean on. He tells himself there’s no need to panic, he excelled in training, the top of his class, he kept to every promise he made, Credo commended him at the end of his final test. The Order can't prevent him from becoming a knight. He’s so close, he can taste it, just hold for a few more minutes, they haven’t even reached 'm’ yet. </p><p>“Cavalier Mateo, surge aut sis eques in nomine Dei.” </p><p><em> Shit, shit, shit, nevermind. </em>Nero inhales a shaky breath and shifts his position so his face is buried in the sleeves of his uniform. The graduate to his left squirms uncomfortably and stands to accept his fate. Today’s graduation day but as he passes, Nero swipes a glimpse of his teammate. He looks as sick as Nero feels but presses one knee to the ground all the same. </p><p>“State the oaths.” </p><p>“I, as a member of the Holy Knights of the Order of the Sword...” </p><p>Nero’s leg starts bouncing up and down, continuing the rhythm from where he left off. He resists the urge to swivel his head around to find Credo standing by with his squadron or Kyrie parallel to him and- <em> too late, he sees them. </em>They notice the moment he places his eyes on them. Credo is like stone, cold and unmoving. Kyrie offers him a gentle smile which he crookedly returns.  </p><p>“...swear to be courageous, truthful, and loyal to the cause of my church and savior.” </p><p><em> ‘It’s hot in here. Was it always so hot? Gosh, Kyrie looks amazing- agh! Focus!’ </em>Nero forces his gaze straight forward and his posture ramrod straight. He’s sure he hears Kyrie’s quiet giggle from across the hall even though he can’t see what she’s doing. </p><p>“We dub thee, Knight Mateo. Rise.” His Holiness gives off an air of being warm and fond as the knight follows his orders and bows with respect. “May the savior be with you.”  </p><p>“May the savior be with you.” </p><p>That’s it? It’s over? How many ceremonies have they done so far? Nero, who has never cared for mass or religious ceremonies at all, debates praying to Sparda for peace of mind and maybe the slim chance he’s not next. Screw it, he’s actually praying now, he’s lost his marbles. He’s not next, he knows this, even if the knight returning sits <em>right. Next. To. Him. </em> It’s fine, someone else has to go that’s not him, not him, <em> not him.  </em></p><p>“Cavalier Nero,” </p><p>
  <em> FUCK. </em>
</p><p>“Surge aut sis eques in nomine Dei.” </p><p> </p><p>Nero takes another breath and rises, stiffly making his way to the foot of the stairs. He kneels before the sword, all the warmth from His Holiness’ face drains away, as though he wants to turn Nero down and tell him he’s not worthy of knighthood. He can hear his heart pounding in his head, threatening to explode out like a bloody sacrifice for some old man he doesn’t even care about. What a fucking thought, if he could keel over and die right now, that would be great. </p><p>“State the oaths.” </p><p>Nero’s throat goes dry. He can’t remember any words aside from the whole long list consisting of expletives he’s spent his entire teenagerdom composing. He rolls his shoulders awkwardly, turns his head, and sees Credo making a stern, commanding movement. His palm held in front of his chest rising and falling. <em> Breathe.  </em></p><p>“I, as a member of the Holy Knights of the Order of the Sword swear to be courageous, truthful, and loyal to the cause of my church and savior.” </p><p>There’s a pause held by unforgiving bitterness and for a moment he’s sure he stated the oath wrong and His Holiness is going to stab him through for being such a monumental dumbass. The last thing Nero thinks is that he deserves it. </p><p>“We dub thee, Knight Nero. Rise.” </p><p>Nero hisses out a sigh of relief and stands before the vicar. </p><p>“May the savior be with you.” His Holiness says it with such rigidness Nero almost breaks down into laughter. He made it, when everyone else doubted him, when the only people who had faith in him was his family. He made it. Take that you pearl-clutching, stuck up, crusty, old bastards. </p><p>It’s with a vindictive sort of glee and mockery that Nero speaks his next words. “May the savior be with you.” </p><p>He tromps away from the stairs and past his seating arrangement on the pews and right out the door, which Credo will give him a mouthful for but what does he care? He damn made it, he feels like celebrating. </p><hr/><p>
  <em> ‘Kill him, Nelo Angelo. I expect nothing less than a flawless victory.’ </em>
</p><p>Mundus’ eyes watch him from every corner, reminding him of the punishment for failure. <em> You wouldn’t dare, </em> the parasite inside him sings with an impish voice. <em> Not when our lord can- </em> It breaks off into keening laughter that grates against Nelo Angelo’s ears. <em> Can- can seeeeeeee youuuuuuu. </em>He doesn’t need to be reminded that his master will whip him with thunder and light if does. As if he would fail to hunt down such a simple quarry, he is the Emperor’s esteemed general, held with the most regard and to the highest expectations. </p><p>He traverses the corrupted world with ease where most creatures might react to it as if the air were made of lead and the ground of jello. He’s had years to assume control of it and even longer to gain Mundus’ trust with it. It isn’t as if he's allowed misuse it anyway. He muses on this as he rounds into the castellan’s chambers, observing the prey that enters. He almost cackles. Almost. He’s so straightforward, so <em>human </em>in appearance. Nelo Angelo has to mock him and his bright red coat, mimic it so they’re perfect reflections of each other. </p><p>His quarry startles and backs up against the mirror, it takes all of his self-control not to wrap a claw around his throat and pull him into the corrupted world. That would be too easy. </p><p>The man in the red coat whirls around, artic blue eyes catching sight of the teasing smile he creates using his quarry’s face. His hand reaches back for Alastor. Deep violet dances around the hilt, warning him of what may come if he approaches. Nelo Angelo drops his amusement and reveals himself. He snaps his fingers and gestures to the outside. No one threatens him. it’s time to fight. </p><p>His master is watching. </p><hr/><p>Nero stalks through hell’s forest with the same countenance managed by most of its damned occupants—pissed off to the deepest parts of his gut and two seconds away from attacking the next thing that comes tumbling out of the foliage. He’s been at this stupid assignment for hours, hunting down His Holiness’ assassin, which if he’s honest, he doesn’t even care. He’s more a pain in the ass than an actual threat in Nero’s eyes, going out of his way to hit up some tourist sights and kill knights along the way. But Nero can’t just leave him unbothered and well, he threatened Kyrie which never does anyone any favors. </p><p>That doesn’t make this job any less tedious and it’s not good for him, especially since his brain is running a mile a minute, repeating everything he saw and heard in Dr. Agnus’ laboratory. </p><p>
  <em> “This, this is all Credo's doing. It was Credo who ordered you to follow Dante... It was Credo who brought you here!” </em>
</p><p>What did Credo have to do with this? Why would he let Nero walk into a trap meant to kill him? More importantly, where did <em> Dante </em>fit into all of this? What did he know that Nero didn’t? Had his brother betrayed him? Nero squashes that last one before it can gain any traction. Of course, Credo wouldn’t betray him, what a stupid thought. </p><p>His Devil Bringer itches furiously and it’s obnoxious blue glow starts seeping out, the frigid sharpness of the Yamato materializes into his hands. Nero seethes at the lack of control he has over her. Her voice is screechy and he can’t understand a word she’s saying. It’s probably for the better that he can’t, he knows damn well they’d get into an argument and he’s already sure he’s lost most of the common sense in his head, he doesn’t need to lose anymore by going at it with a supposedly sentient weapon. </p><p>He nearly snaps at the thing to shut up but just manages to bite his tongue. He’s got bigger things to worry about. Nero chews on everything he’s experienced and what this means for the Order, for all his oaths and loyalty. It might be time to get some answers just as <em> Dante </em>has been prodding him to do. Whether or not it’s a good thing he’s taking an assassin’s advice is left up for questioning, nevertheless, Nero grabs onto the possibility and chases after it.</p><hr/><p>The first thing Vergil notices once the adrenaline fades to a dull thrumming is the gash in his side and how he can feel it stitching back together at a pace much slower than he’s used to. The second thing he notices is the glint of his amulet through the rushing white of the waterfall and how it blurs in his vision. As he trips over himself to reach it, something strikes him and makes itself known. He’s been defeated. Dante has defeated him. After years of going head to head with his brother, either being met with a stalemate or victory, Vergil has finally, finally lost. The taste is as bitter as the ash on his tongue and as blinding as the flash of Dante’s coat as it swishes out behind him. </p><p>Vergil backs up against the edge of the waterfall, aware of the demons shrieking below and the great eye in the black night observing his every move. </p><p>“This place is our father’s home," Vergil tells Dante. There’s a silent promise there that when he returns from the Underworld, he’s going to be much stronger and next time, he will win. There’s no doubt about it. </p><p>The wind rushes around him as he falls back and lets the darkness catch him. </p><hr/><p>Silence. Deafening, clamoring silence. Credo’s body and the fountain of blood spraying from it make a silhouette in the light of the sun, his hold on the savior slips away as the Yamato tears from him, and he plummets, lifeless before he even hits the ground. The familiar sting of tears pricks the corners of Nero’s eyes as he reaches out his right arm, his only free arm, hoping, praying there’s some way he can catch his brother before he falls. A brilliant red glares through his vision and breaks the path. A piece of Nero’s brain is relieved he doesn’t have to see his brother hit the cold, hard ground but the rest knows the truth: Credo is dead. </p><p>As Nero snaps back into reality, his throat raw from screaming, he suddenly comes aware of the banter Dante is throwing his way. A spark of his old rebellious attitude returns as the Savior sucks him down. </p><p>“If you die without giving my sword back, I’m gonna be pissed!” Dante shouts from the lowest floor of the arena. </p><p>Nero flips him the bird and with his demon hand to make a point. “Then come and get it.” </p><p>From there, it’s just darkness. He can hear Kyrie singing his favorite song assuring him redemption is near, he can feel her hand slipping into his, warm and comforting, the other on his cheek as the savior closes around him. It’s kind of ironic, he thinks. The god his family pledged their undying allegiance to is now subjugating him to a fate worse than death, it’s done the same to Kyrie, and killed Credo. Sparda must have a terrible sense of humor. </p><p>Maybe it’s due to the sudden weight of today’s events crashing down onto him but it’s then Nero breaks. He lets out a choked sob, allows his tears come freely, an unstoppable flood breaking past the dam he built to keep himself at bay. It has no ferocity, no beast-like visage consuming him. It’s raw and cold and sad in a way Nero hasn’t been since he lived in the orphanage. Since he realized that no one in the world wanted him. It’s loss personified and Nero hates every ounce of it’s festering, rushing existence. He has a family who wants him, or had, anyway before they were ripped away. If he gets out of this alive, Nero suspects he’s going to be completely alone. For good, this time.  </p><p>Steel pierces him, watering a flower that blooms from his chest, creaking and aching. He presses his bringer to his heart, feeling for the metal that’s wedged its way in there, seeing maybe if he can pull it out. He can, it turns out, because this pain is real and physical and jolts him free. </p><p>“Time to wake up, kid!” </p><p>Dante. What does he want now? </p><p>“You’re missing out on all the fun!” </p><p>Fun? What fun? This day has been nothing but the endless universe kicking him in the ribs over and over, one blow coming after another while still demanding he gets to his feet and takes it because there’s nothing he can do otherwise. Nero’s sick of that, sick of feeling powerless. He wants to do something, to vent all his anger and sadness out, and maybe, finally feel peace again. </p><p>“Nero!” </p><p><em> ‘God, he’s </em> <b> <em>so</em> </b> <em> annoying.’ </em>Nero grits his teeth and traces the steel blade to its tsuba—Yamato. Fine, he’s received the message, he’s going. With the damned thing in his grasp, he cuts himself out of the heart of the savior. The ground squishes beneath him, oozing a clear fluid that immediately activates his gag reflex and he staggers to his feet to get away from it, nearly pitching into a fleshy wall. </p><p>“An opportunity to save the world doesn’t happen every day, you know. Savor it.” </p><p>He can save the world, can’t he? Even when it’s done nothing but beat him down, he can save it, he can save the one person in it that has any faith left in him. He can save what remains. He can throw himself into this task, beat the ever-living shit out of Sanctus, maybe punch Dante in the face. But the thing that hangs over him the most is all that matters. </p><p>“Hang on, Kyrie. I’m coming.” </p><hr/><p>There’s a word to describe the silence that blankets the corridor of Temen-Ni-Gru. It accompanies the stench of devil blood and the rattling hiss of the Yamato as it slides home, her pleased hum drowning the receding soul of the man he’s just killed. Satisfying? Therapeutic? It’s difficult to say, even more so to express it when he doesn’t bother to stick around. He strides through the doors to the ritual room, leaving Arkham’s body behind. </p><p>“What about you? You’re an incomplete being as well,” Arkham accused him before his demise. “Both human and demon blood mingle in your veins.” </p><p>“Shut up.” </p><p>A struck nerve shot off and ricocheted across his body, Vergil’s grip on the Yamato tightened. He was intentionally sloppy with pulling her out, he wanted to cause as much pain as possible. Whether such a thing had been necessary was questionable but it was certainly petty, he doesn’t give in to such impulses easily, he has to protect his dignity. But Arkham is a special case, so Vergil indulges this once, even if it’s celebrating prematurely. After all, once he has his father’s power, he’ll be able to indulge as much as he wants. He can defeat Dante, tear down the tower, and retire somewhere protected, where demons won’t dare tread if they don’t want to die. Or maybe he can see more of the world again, this time without the pretense of being hunted.</p><p>He can go somewhere safe. </p><p>Besides, Arkham is weak and Vergil has been keeping an eye out for the moment he can seize onto one of those human faults and use it to prey. Who would have thought something as ridiculous as paternal love would get in the way of a man who craves power? Vergil supposes it’s a good thing he doesn’t have to worry about any attachments standing in his way.</p><hr/><p><em> ‘This fucking tree!’ </em>Nero swears as he jams his fingers into the nearest ridge and hoists himself up to another ledge. He’s been all over the damn place today, inside and out, near the bottom, now near the top, upside down at some point if Trish’s words are anything to go by. If he has to spend another minute not hacking through the roots, he’s going to cough up his organs. Which, excessive, he knows, and it’ll make Kyrie mad, but dammit don’t test him. He’s just fortunate enough to have his anger directed at something else entirely. Five years of lies from the man he respected. Dante, in maybe all the six or seven times he’s visited Fortuna since they’ve met, has been keeping more secrets from Nero than he ever could have imagined. </p><p>
  <em> “That’s not it, Nero!”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What is it, then?!”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “HE’S YOUR FATHER!”  </em>
</p><p>Nero lets out a guttural shout and slams his breaker into the ground. Surprise, surprise, it detonates and sends him further into his fury. He allows himself a volley of curses too vulgar to be described before he settles back into climbing, scolding himself. He shouldn’t have been so naive, to think Dante would trust him with all of the secrets to their supposedly shared family. Nero always knew Dante was the reserved type, he uses his bravado and gust to cover up the sadness, convincing him that everything he pretends to be is on the outside. But on the inside, it’s a tangled, gnarled mess of hatred and rivalry and whatever else Nero has yet to really see. </p><p>And Vergil? V? Nero has no idea where to even begin with that disaster. He might be able to deck him, tie him to a chair and start interrogating him for answers, who knows? Maybe he can talk him down from this Qliphoth and cobble a mutual relationship with him, become father and son. The rational part of his brain decides then is a good time to laugh at him. The hell is he thinking? He’s met V, he’s seen Urizen, there’s no telling who exactly Vergil takes after here. For all he knows, he might get stuck doing the same shit Dante’s been doing for years. Vergil might die. Seized by that thought, Nero barely notices the damaged as hell phone booth shrouded in greenery. He pauses right by it, looks once to the red and blue energies warring with one another an exhausting distance away, then looks again to the phone. Before Nero even has time to consider whether it even works, he’s paid the machine and pressed in the number. It rings once, twice, three times. </p><p>“Hello?” </p><p>Nero’s breath catches in his throat at the sound of her voice, all of his anger deflates, and the aching well of sadness from over five years ago returns. He remembers when he was by her side and wishes he could be again. But for now, her voice and her open, listening heart will suffice. As he pours his troubles into the speaker, he can feel himself becoming a little misty-eyed but Kyrie won’t judge him for it. His openness is one of the things she loves about him and of course, it’s her faith in him that drives him forward. If they were standing on the end of the world, if they’d both lost everything near and dear to them, Nero’s willing to believe Kyrie would still hold that faith. It’s one of the things he loves about her. </p><p>This family he’s just been given is small, insane, powerful, and broken. So much that there might not be any way to repair it. Dante is an ass, Vergil ripped his fucking arm off, saying there’s a rocky start here is an understatement. But Nero wants them, he wants this family for all their flaws and idiocy and bullshit, he wants to be a part of it, and he wants them to be a part of the life he’s built for himself. He wants to <em>try. </em>He wants them to live. </p><p>With a burst of newfound energy, Nero takes off, feeling like he can fly. </p><hr/><p>The discordant cackle of a nearby demon makes Vergil freeze in the alleyway. He shoves himself up against the low part of a wall, behind a stack of boxes discarded at the behest of a shop owner, and yanks his hood further down his face. The cloak is enough to conceal his entire body but only if he crouches and pulls the bundle of warmth closer to him. He’s been miraculously silent this entire time, barring the tired, squeaky grumbling he makes in his sleep. Vergil can’t be more grateful for it. He pulls the cloak back a bit, peering at the pudgy, restful face with a hint of relief. </p><p>Vergil has lived the majority of his life alone. He’s had no one to empathize with what he’s been through, how fast and hard the upheaval of his childhood sears through him, and now that he does, it’s his greatest regret. Bringing a son into his world, where demons never sleep and the smallest drop of blood can draw demons to his location, is a mistake. The only one he can’t reverse. </p><p>There’s a war of emotions raging inside him, the more he thinks about it, the worse it gets, the closer he gets to slipping into a haze where his demonic heritage takes control and rips everything to pieces. One side froths, choleric beyond measure, demanding Vergil leave the baby to die and go. Sparda’s name and blood is both a blessing and curse, he’d be better off dead. Another side admonishes, all the subtlety of an avalanche raining down to remind him that this is <em>his son </em>and therefore <em>his responsibility. </em>Abandonment of something living, breathing that he helped create says something about his character that not even thievery or murder does and he has his honor to uphold. The smallest of sides fights a losing battle and selfishly urges Vergil to keep him. He never had anyone to understand his struggles or to guide him through the trials his mixed blood provides, and- </p><p>
  <b> <em>LOOK OUT! </em> </b>
</p><p>His senses scream bloody murder, that phrase hangs in the air, pausing with the sheets of pouring rain, crystalline glass slivering once, spreading, growing. The dark of the night subsumes him and his son, the only sound is the steady pounding of a human heartbeat.</p><p>It shatters. The demon vaults over the boxes. Vergil dashes from the alleyway, directly into the waiting claws of his hunters and their trap, clinging to his son with desperation. He can’t fight, not in these conditions, not when he has to protect, to fret about- A growl tears out of his throat as the nearest demon leaps back and forth, its mask changing from white to gold that gleams in scintillation of lightning. His baby, jolted awake by the movement, angry cries accompanying the black night, turns to Vergil for comfort. </p><p>
  <b> <em>TO YOUR RIGHT! </em></b>
</p><p>Vergil gears down, wrapping his arms around his son and banks beneath the coming attack. Yamato rattles at his side. </p><p>
  <em> (“Master!”) </em>
</p><p>He’s fine. He says it more to himself than to Yamato, he needs the certainty to keep her loyalty. He needs the certainty to keep his son safe. </p><p>
  <b> <em>LEFT!</em> </b>
</p><p>A stab of panic goes through Vergil’s stomach, throwing him around like a ship on a stormy sea. He can’t focus when he’s in flight mode or when his baby’s crying thunders against his ears, he can’t do this. He can’t protect what matters most, he’s going to lose it all again, he’s going to-</p><p>His demonic power explodes outward, all his rage and despair and instincts consuming the demons coming for him and devouring them in his power. They scream and dissolve to ashes at his feet, washing away with the storm. Vergil’s ragged breathing is the only strange sound in the storm, the iridescent glimmer of his wings ignites the night sky, steaming where the rain meets them. His baby is silent and a rock lodges in Vergil’s throat, wondering what this means, wondering if, in his outburst of fear, he killed-</p><p>A startled babbling breaks that train of thought and Vergil sighs so deliberately it hurts his lungs. He doesn’t know who to thank first, some deity from beyond this plane of existence for granting him this sliver of luck or himself for dedicating years of practice to something so fine he doesn’t bring harm to the things he loves. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have time to figure this out, more demons will be coming his way shortly, their howling echoes in the distance. He continues on his way, back alleys and cobblestone streets blurring together until they all look the same, labyrinthine and never-ending on this infernal island. Finally, he comes to a stop outside a rather cold-seeming place sending shivers down Vergil’s spine. Surely, this couldn’t be it. He checks the sign on the door and as he feared, it’s where he’s been meaning to go. </p><p>The Fortuna Orphanage. </p><p>His baby coos and whines in the cradle of Vergil’s arms, tiny hands reaching out of their blanket. Vergil offers him a thumb which the infant wraps his fingers around, subdued by the action, and a harrowing ache begins in his heart. He has to leave his son behind, that one thought fills immensity and grinds everything else into dust. Habitually, Vergil tightens his grip. His rationale tells him this is the only way and it’s just temporary. He’ll have a solution soon, he can come back for his son, and in the meantime, he’ll have what Vergil never did. Safety. And a fighting chance. </p><p>As gently as possible, Vergil settles his baby down in his bundle of blankets on the step, underneath the shielding archway of the entrance. He raps three times on the door and warps away to the alley across the street, completely still. The longer he waits, the more he fears those demons are going to show up again, that his baby will be endangered. Did he knock loud enough? Are they all still asleep? </p><p>The door squeaks open. Vergil tenses, waiting to see what she’ll do as she notices his baby, curious babbling suddenly turning into a wailing, pleading with his father to come back. He wishes he could, he wishes he could sweep his baby into his arms and take him home. But now isn’t the time. Temen-Ni-Gru will rise soon, then it will be over. Only then can he have his family back. As soon as the woman disappears with his son, Vergil allows himself to leave. </p><hr/><p>It’s been approximately two months since the Qliphoth fell and Nero is pissed off. Nico is being more of a pain in the ass than usual, hassling him on breaker prices and flinging the word “dumbass” at him more often, particularly when he gets smacked around by demons—he can afford to do so, he heals much faster, his Devil Trigger turns him into a powerhouse, so she has no business pestering him like this. The mission he’s on has taken him all the way out to Capulet City, Lady and Trish supposedly have their own job in the next city over so Nero is the one hauling in the cash this time around. Essentially, the day is relatively normal. Enough that when the van pulls up to Devil May Cry, he has zero expectations. </p><p>“It’s a supply run, Nico,” Nero says, kicking the door open. She grunts in reproach upon noticing the action but doesn’t reply. “I’m not going to raid Dante’s alcohol cabinet.” </p><p>Nico walks around the front of the van, staring him down. He knows that look on her face, the raised eyebrow, the quirked smile, the spark in her eyes suggesting she knows more than she lets on. He hates it and is at least seventy percent sure it means Nico is about to take after Lady in the business dealings department, meaning Kyrie will hear about this because she’s the only one who can control this monstrosity he calls a best friend. </p><p>“Not again, anyway?” Nico asks slyly. </p><p>“One time!” Nero shouts, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “I did that one time. Because he deserved it.” </p><p>“And he doesn’t this time?” </p><p>He does, technically speaking but despite how little of it he has left, Nero still respects Dante. He has no grounds to steal the fancier stuff and he doesn’t plan on taking advice from any of Devil May Cry’s less clement members. Especially not Trish, who assures him that the McAllister whiskey Dante’s been saving for his twenty-third birthday is okay to get into a couple months early. He’s still holding out hope his uncle—<em> jeez, that’s still so weird to think about </em>—will be back in time. </p><p>“Just, hurry up. I’d like to get those scraps the girls rounded up for us and be out of here before noon.” </p><p>“You’re not gettin’ shit from me if you took any of my stuff, kid!” </p><p>Nero’s veins run cold for half a second then fill with a crackling, blinding power. His brain flips the overdrive switch, disregarding any doubts that it’s who he thinks it is. He sprints across the pavement, boots coming down fast and heavy before he angles them at the entrance. The door flies off its hinges and slams into the farthest wall, inches past Dante’s head. As soon as it loses momentum, it smashes flat onto the floor and stays there. A duet of high-pitched laughter erupts from Trish and Lady as they keel over themselves on the couch, Dante pouts, marginally upset that his property’s just been destroyed, and Vergil is so incredibly poker-faced that Nero can’t tell whether he thinks his kid <em> (also weird to think about) </em> is impressive or insane. Probably some mixture of both. Dante takes his feet off the desk and leans forward. </p><p>“Seriously?” He says.  </p><p>That tears it. Nero’s demonic arms wink into existence on his back and he immediately launches one fist at Dante’s face, shoving him out of his chair. A barely suppressed snort attracts Nero’s attention to the way Vergil has his nose buried in a book and he winds up his other arm. </p><p>“You’re not exempt either, asshole!” Nero shouts as the other one catches Vergil’s face as well. Dante wheezes out a laugh, clutching his head as he rolls to his feet and supports himself on his desk. </p><p>“Nice to see you too, kid.” </p><p>Vergil steadies himself using the wall, nursing his lower face with a hand. “Didn’t quite expect that. You’re stronger than I thought.” </p><p>“He’s always got a new trick up his sleeve, Verge, I thought I told you that.” </p><p>“Shut up!” Nero snaps out before Vergil can respond. Both arms shoot out and grab them by the coats, yanking them into Nero’s immediate vicinity in a flash of blue and gold. “Both of you just shut up!” </p><p>The air is strung tight and thin as Nero pulls them close. His breathing remains steady and deep, the rest of his energy goes into remaining as controlled as possible. The twins stand in place, not daring to so much as sigh or shift their weight until Nero has his way, although which way that might be is left to the imagination. He hasn’t decided to yell at them more or beat them half to death yet, which can only go down two paths: forgiveness or total annihilation, no in-between. Nero considers letting them agonize over it but if he’s honest with himself, he’s tired and just a smidge relieved. As though he’d show it. Well, he is. But he doesn’t realize it. His wings begin to shimmer, slowly, unnoticeable from where they’re attached to their shoulders, and glow gold from base to tip. Nero latches onto their biceps with his normal human arms, squeezing like they’re his lifeline. </p><p>“Don’t you two ever leave again,” Nero rasps. </p><p>Dante huffs, sounding a bit too happy. A cautious hand finds Nero’s hair and for a split second, he thinks Dante’s being sappy. But out of the corner of his eye, he notices that his uncle’s only movement is his lips pulling into an easygoing smile. Vergil’s voice when he speaks is softer than he’s heard it. </p><p> </p><p>“I… We won’t. I promise.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I think it's incredibly classic that I can manage a small first chapter and then realize that the rest of Hanami Week isn't going to be concise at all. RIP. </p><p>Lengthy explanation time: I love a lot of different takes on headcanons in the DMC universe and I'm not dedicated to any one of them, too many interesting paths to walk and all that. In this chapter, I followed the headcanons that Vergil was the one who left Nero on the orphanage doorstep. When he became Nelo Angelo, Mundus embedded a parasite demon of sorts into him to keep him check, thus fueling Vergil's desire to cut himself in half (it's not the sole reason but it is a part of the motivation.) Mundus also erased much of Vergil's memories and thereby reason for fighting and that's why he doesn't realize Nero is his son. His focus on defeating Dante is intensified because Temen-Ni-Gru is one of the few things he remembers clearly.</p>
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